


You can't have Hardy without Laurel

by areyoutalking



Category: Laurel and Hardy RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Brotherly Love, Depression, Gen, Memories, Platonic Relationships, Supernatural Elements, There are more people, Youre gonna hate me, but idc, just so ya know, major feels, taking place during 'The Flying Deuces'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-02 06:11:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16781218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoutalking/pseuds/areyoutalking
Summary: I sorta wanna shoot myself in the foot with a stapler gun for writing this but this just came to me.





	You can't have Hardy without Laurel

The memory of how he found out was terribly blurry. 

He can't remember what was said, or how the people around him reacted, but what _did_ stick in his mind was how he reacted. 

It always seemed you yourself remember how you took the bullet, and it always seemed embarrassing. 

Such a silly way to react, collapsing to the floor, tears of agony streaming down his face, and his scream so loud and powerful his lungs burned. Such a silly way to react. 

He should've burned the building to the ground. 

It was during the filming of "The Flying Deuces," their 100 and something film together, and it was a fine film indeed. That is, if it were to be finished, it would've been an excellent film, just like future films that they would've made. 

They would've spectacular. 

Jean Parker was a lovely little thing. Baby-faced, fresh out of college, and about 20 + years younger than both of them. But she was a lovely girl indeed. 

So terrible she had to deliver the news. Her large eyes were filled to the brim with sympathy, some tears had escaped as well as she told him the news. 

Stan was dead. 

Car accident. A large truck smashed into his side of the car, killing him instantly. 

Stan meant a lot to Jean, she grew up watching him, he made her happy. Stan meant a lot to millions of people, but to Oliver, he meant everything. 

After that, that was when Oliver collapsed, his eyes burning, his lungs deflating as he screamed. 

Stan was dead. He was dead.

No. He can't be, he had to finish the film. He had to watch his little girl grow up into a beautiful woman. He had to stay up all night for a damned script. 

He can't die. Not now.

Not like this. 

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He promised himself he wouldn't cry. 

He promised. 

But he did, oh, how he sobbed.

Stan's casket was finally closed, finally. Oliver couldn't bear to see him anymore, not like that. 

He did look peaceful, Oliver did have to admit it, he looked more peaceful than he had seen him in years. Angelic even. But he just looked... _wrong_. 

It looked all wrong. All of this. 

His fist was full of cold earth, and his eyes were trained on the casket in the dark hole. He didn't care what people think, he needed to say in, he wanted to let Stan know for the last time. 

"I love you, Stanley."

Everyone imaginable seemed to be there.

Buster.

Virginia.

Lois.

Hell, even _Chaplin_ was there.

Stan's dad was there too. Well, it wouldn't make sense if he wasn't there, but he strayed far away. He sat, a broken man on a cold bench. The agony was downright pitiful to witness. Oliver couldn't blame him though.

Little Lois was there too, her cheeks red, tears cutting deep valleys into her face. She looked just liked her father, smiled like him too.

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It's a bitter tasting pill. But for a headache, it'll do a lot of good.

"You'll feel better now," Stan mussed, leaning back in his chair and peaking around a cracked door. "I take those all the time, they help."

His hair was a downright mess, and a cigarette hung lazily between his lips.

Oliver winced, the headache rumbling around his skull like a thunderstorm.

"Well, it's not helping me at the moment." He replied sourly, pressing his fingers against his pounding temples.

"Well dammit, you gotta give it time, babe." Stan chuckled affectionately, standing and strolling into the room.

His fingers were ink-stained, patches of yellow from the nicotine seemed embedded into his skin. He'd been writing like he always did, staying up late, sometimes all night for a script.

He really was breathtaking like this, it was amazing. 

This tour was taking a lot out of the two, England was amazing no doubt (Oliver was sort of jealous of Stan for growing up in such a beautiful place), but they were more tired than ever. 

And excited. And scared. And nervous. 

And it was the quiet times like these that made Ollie wonder, who could he do it? And why was Stan with him rather than his father?

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It was a month or so after the funeral. But it felt like only hours had gone by. 

The hurt, the anger, and the heart-crushing sadness were still so new. 

Oliver had gotten worse after that, much, much worse. 

He lost so much weight, he barely slept, he barely ate, he barely did anything but sit in a chair next to the window. If it wasn't for Lucille, his body would gather dust and cobwebs. 

Grief is a nasty little devil, it crawls inside you, making itself comfortable as it eats you from the inside out. 

Laying in bed, Ollie stared at the ceiling, his tired form begging him to get some sleep. His mind wouldn't let him, it was still going through the motions. 

Besides, the last time he got some sleep, he woke up to see a mangled car at the foot of the bed, flames licking at the busted windshield, and Stans emotionless and bloody face resting gently on the steering wheel. 

Not a second of sleep after that. But his headaches were getting worse, and he could barely stay awake in the day, naps were avoided though. 

"Babe."

Oliver felt his heart drop, and his head turned slowly towards the door. In the doorway stood a young boy, 15 at the most, in a brown suit a little too big for him and the bluest eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness. 

Stan.

"Well come on, we haven't got all night Babe." He smiled, becking Ollie into the hallway. 

And for some odd reason, he followed. He found Stan sitting at the kitchen table, chewing at a fingernail. 

He looked up when Ollie entered the room. 

"Sit." He pipped, motioning to the chair across from him. Oliver hesitantly pulled out the chair and sat down. An awkward silence followed soon after, and the moment was just them staring at each other. Stan looked so radiant, so happy in his youthful state. He looked like an angel. 

"Is this a dream?" Oliver asked after a while, and his friend shook his head. "But the other night, when I woke up-"

" _That_ , my dear Babe, was a dream. Do you really believe I would visit you like that?" 

"Well, I wouldn't believe you visiting me would even be possible," Oliver admitted, and Stanley laughed. 

"You got a good point there, Ollie. But you must know that _anything_ is possible, even this moment." He frowned, looking down at his hands. 

"I miss you, Arthur." 

"I know, I miss you too... Norvell. I'm... I'm sorry I had to leave you like that... and little Lois..." Stan sucked in a sharp breath. "Damn, now that I think about it, I left a lot of people... _millions_ , even." He gave a small smile, shaking his head as he did so. 

Another moment of silence passed between them before Stan gave a chuckle. 

"You look nice," His small smile became ten times larger, and Oliver shook his head in return. 

"You look beautiful like this, all..." He paused, thinking. "Young and bright, it's amazing to see you like this." 

"Yeah," Stan looked out the window at the rising sun in the distance. "I guess so."

Oliver's heart sank when realized that this was probably the last time he'll ever see his friend, his partner. 

"Please come back." He begged, and Stan gave a laugh. 

"I will, I promise. But right now I gotta go back home, see me mum," he stood and gave Oliver a gentle kiss on the forehead. "For now, don't go getting into fine messes without me."

And with that, he was gone. 

**Author's Note:**

> hi so sorry this sucks, ive been trying to get this nice and whatever, but i tried my best. you can hate me for killing stanley, but this idea literally hit me like a ton of bricks.


End file.
